


Good Roses: Or The Demon Crowley's Guide To Getting Your Plants To Do What You Want, When You Want, With No Complaints

by crownlessliestheking



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A Botanist's True Nightmare, Blasted Geraniums, Bullying (of the plants), Commentary by Aziraphale, Crack, Drabble, Fantastic Flora and How NOT To Care for Them: A Guide Written by Crowley, Fluff, Fussy Roses, Gen, Humor, M/M, Orchid Nemeses, Plant Podcasts, Threats, quick fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 00:44:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20282599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/crownlessliestheking
Summary: Crowley accidentally begins a plant broadcast, thanks to a peculiar slip of demonic radio-wave powers. Somehow, people are into that.





	Good Roses: Or The Demon Crowley's Guide To Getting Your Plants To Do What You Want, When You Want, With No Complaints

**Author's Note:**

> Do I know if I'm going to continue this? No. Would I like to? Yes. Was it so much fucking fun to write? Hell /fucking/ yes. 
> 
> [Tags will be updated as needed, if I do continue.]

They say that the world ends with a whimper, not a bang- and while certain folk hold that there is no noise at all when there is no one really left around to hear it (and this may not be wholly true given the shocking and remarkable persistence of the human species, not dissimilar to cockroaches, bacteria, and tardigrades), and more to the point, there is no way the implosion or destruction of a planet would be soundless, their protests are viewed as pedantic nonsense peddled against idle poetry. Or not so idle, depending. But there is solid logic in stating that if things end with a feeble whimper, they must begin with a bang. Big or otherwise, of course, and failing that, a suitably loud and startling noise that can be described as explosive either literally or metaphorically.

The burst of static that crackles through London and the surrounding areas on any and all devices capable of transmitting audio is more of the latter, including angry reactions. It’s a good job, all told- up mortal frustration and annoyance, and any demon worth their salt (or not, given the demonic part of it) would have been proud to take credit for it. Not to say that just any demon would have thought of it; that kind of minor disruption tends to be orchestrated by Crowley, usually artfully, and usually very pleased to claim the dubious honor.

In this case, things were different.

After the initial staticky burst, a single voice could be heard emanating from each individual speaker, across hundreds of thousands of speakers. Or double that, if the listeners in question were enjoying audio content on their phones, though the impact of this was less for folks lay in the intersection of broken headphones and being under the age of thirty five, in which case their phones were on silent and nothing short of Nuclear Armageddon would be disturbing them. Regular Armageddon probably wouldn’t make much of a dent.

It was male, British, posh, and incandescently furious.

“So! It looks like I’ve returned home to find that the micccce play while the cat isss away,” it begins, menacing, some words hissed. Angrily, yes, but also rather serpentine. “A disgusting messss, is what this is- and after all the hard work I put in to have you looking nice and pretty and keeping things clean. The curtains are open, too, so Satan bloody knows what the _neighbors_ are going to think of the sorry sight you lot present. You’re here for one thing, and one thing only, and don’t you dare forget that, you hear me?”

At this point, most listeners began to worry for those being addressed in this tone. Children, perhaps? A wife? Wives, thought the most scandalous mind. Of course, not everyone even thought of doing anything other than trying to change the station, deeply uncomfortable. Some even met with success, if switching to blaring static could be considered a success. It was just a few select folk who thought, ‘maybe I ought to call the police’, before promptly realizing that there was no real way to trace this broadcast, and that it could very well be at the police station too, if the four friends they’d texted to enquire about it were also hearing the same thing somehow. The very dull assumed it was a terrible auditory hallucination, turned the volume down, and took a nice nap with the fullest confidence that it would be gone when they woke up- a passive but effective solution to many problems, including this one.

The more curious, the more concerned, the more awake, continued to tune in with wide eyes and wider mouths.

But there was none of the fearful whimpering anyone might expect from an abrupt snuff-themed radio show- no, there was only silence, and quiet rustling that sounded like it could have been clothes, or curtains, natural and unpanicked other than the ruffle of a stray breeze.

“Yes, yes,” the voice continued, now almost dangerously sweet. Listeners at this point felt more confusion than concern- this person was clearly continuing a completely one-sided conversation, and unless his phone had somehow decided to broadcast only one half of a call, he was entirely insane. This comforted some, of course, though others were still curious as to who the other half of this was meant to be. “I know you all have your excuses, and let me tell you that I am SICK of hearing them. I don’t want a single whisper of ‘the sunlight was poor’, or ‘this is London, you sodding fool, all it does is rain and gloom’- I’ll not be having backtalk from a single one of you. See, I don’t care that this is London. I care that you’re not doing your damned jobs, which, by the way, a bloody cactus could manage without half the complaints about sunlight, and water, and temperature, and the humidity three days ago as _you_ lot.”

One could almost imagine him turning viciously to address- the assorted flora being chewed out, apparently.

“I mean _really_, how much whinging can you even do? You have good soil and water and don’t you dare talk back to me about the light, because we all know that you have precisely how much you need, and not a single bloody photon more! There are plants starving and spindling away in locked cupboards that would _kill_ for the premium treatment I heap upon you, and they most certainly would not have the sheer sodding audacity to show me not one, not two, but four wilted leaves and a shrivelled petal to top it all off? Bad, bad move. You all need to be ripped into shape.”

Surely, the listeners thought, surely he’d said whipped. The phrase was whipped, not ripped, and while these originally helpless victims were now clearly established to be very hapless plants with a very exacting owner, the sympathy originally established was still there.

For most.

Others, however.

More avid gardeners. Mothers with fields of roses that required tending, flower-shop owners ready to gut their competition (at times, literally, and often with rusty garden shears to maximize the pain involved), and some very, very enterprising students with plants giving them reasons to live, were listening with perked ears and some intent. The kind of people who would talk to their plants, if they thought it would work- and the kind who might be tempted to flip from soft words to very pointed threats, if need be.

This man, whoever he was, however insane he was, was onto something.

The audio faded, crackling briefly with static and distance as the voice turned faint. They were on the edges of their metaphorical (and physical) seats now. Were more threats being made, was this a clever way of censoring something graphic enough to scar the audience?

Which was not a welcome prospect and would leave everyone miffed if that was the case- humans never fail to insist they have strong stomachs, and then proceed to make themselves sick to the stomach and with nightmares to boot afterwards.

In this case, it was quite simply the unknown narrator moving to trail his fingers across waxy leaves. A lot of them, if the rustling was anything to go by.

Then, a sharp, tearing sound, and a disgusted noise.

-“And what do you think you’re doing, you blasted geraniums, you’d better get your faces up to the sun this instant or so help me Satan you’re going to be in for it! You don’t want a repeat of last week, now do you? You remember what happened to good old Sam…”

Listeners stared at their respective devices. A varied reaction, here. What _had_ happened to Sam? Who was Sam? Surely not a gardener, but Sam being another plant seemed to be too outlandish, even for this.

(Those with geraniums of their own, wild things that they could be, were fully willing to accept that Sam was not only a flower, but also one that had met a deserving if untimely demise.)

The footsteps faded once more, but they left a tension in the air, purposeful as crystal clear silence reigned. If the plants were now somehow cowering in their roots, then they most certainly should be.

Just when the tension seemed to break, a loud roar truly shattered the quiet. The sound of the engine revving, of what was unmistakeably a machine of astounding devastation for any foliage.

(There was later quite a lot of debate amongst those listening, on the topic of what exactly that was. Some assumed it was as innocent as a trash compacter, the noisy kinds found in sinks. Others thought a motorcycle outside revving, by coincidence. Or inside, not by coincidence. A soundtrack specifically dedicated to that.)

(Not one guessed that it was a chainsaw, but one didn’t need to guess at all.)

“And _that_,” the voice returned, once the roar had cut off, dripping with near-venomous satisfaction, “is why you need to do precisely as I say, when I say it. You know what’ll happen if you don’t, and the orchids are setting a most beautiful example today.”

The orchids were, in fact, as close to shitting themselves as plants could be. This was a lot of newfound pressure.

“Faces to the sun, and I’d better not catch you pulling this again tomorrow.”

The broadcast, strange as it was, cut itself off.

Most went about their days puzzled and vaguely amused. Some put it out of their mind completely. But one middle-aged fellow sitting in the middle of an old bookshop with a cup of tea long gone cold at his side, picked up his phone to text a friend, utilizing the full capacity of modern technology with one finger, painstakingly slowly to avoid any typos or autocorrect-based sabotage (and he knew precisely who to blame for that, thank you very much).

_Crowley, I do believe I heard you on the radio today. _


End file.
